Chapter 12 Fletcher #2
The ref seems confused then raises the puck.
“Fletcher,” Ellie is yelling, “you will not be getting a sticker today.”
“Ooh!” Eddie snickers to the right of me. “Fletcher’s not getting his dick sucked after this.”
“Your coach is sucking your dick?” the Direwolves rookie yelps, half standing up just as I turn to lay into Eddie—
Which is bad because I clip the Direwolves rookie in the face with my stick as I whip around to attack my defenseman.
The baby-faced rookie stumbles back, bleeding, red dripping onto his white uniform.
“Ah, shit, kid, I’m real—”
The wind and all my ribs are knocked out of me as a huge Direwolves D-man clears like twenty feet of ice in half a second and launches into me.
“Fight! Fight! Fight!” the crowd chants as the huge Midwesterner pummels me.
Zayne, who either can hold his liquor way better than I can or who did actually partake in that cocaine that Granny Murray was offering, leaps over the boards onto the ice. “Get him on the ropes, Fletch,” he hollers, skating toward me.
The rest of the team hesitate a beat. They know that leaving the bench to fight is breaking a cardinal sin and gets you ejected from the game. But Murphy’s Law is rushing into the fight, and by God, they’re following their captain.
Which is good because now it’s two-on-one, and I just took a glove to the nose, and there’s blood in my eyes.
Zayne roars as he collides with the second D-man about to kick me in the face with a sharp skate. Wow, he’s still got it! My inner child is oddly excited as both teams clear the bench while the crowd roars their approval.
The Finnish giant grabs up a forward who’s bear-hugging Jovi and ragdolls him. The refs blow their whistles, and the linemen try to separate the crush of violent players. Eddie is swinging blindly.
I grab one of the forwards around the legs who’s going after Zayne. I gotta hand it to my old hero—no one gets him on the ground. His legs are tree trunks. Zayne grabs one of the D-men pummeling me by his calf and physically picks him up then body-slams him on the ice.
Ren is in the swarm with his oversized goalie stick, slicing through the players. The Direwolves Czech monster then knocks into the fray. All the players scramble away as the two huge goalies muscle through the crush, trying to get at each other.
“Fucking communist,” Ren screams as he goes after the Czech goalie.
“Goalie fight!” The announcers are ecstatic.
“Fight! Fight! Fight!” the crowd screams as the goalies circle each other then charge.
Ren takes a punch to the side of the head then headbutts the other goalie, who slugs him in the mouth. Teeth fly. The linemen jump in to separate the two men as they scream obscenities in their mother tongues.
It’s chaos.
Ren accidentally belts a lineman in the groin, and the rest of us players use the excuse to go after each other. More refs swarm up, screaming about game misconduct penalties. The coaches sling obscenities at their players while the goalies threaten to shoot each other in the parking lot.
We’re all finally herded to be crammed into the penalty box and have to sit there, bleeding and bruising, as the goalies are sent back to their nets to flip each other off while the clock counts down to the end of the game.
Jovi’s pressed right up against me, and Cookie is half sitting in my lap. Bramms’s crotch is near my head. The entire team’s crammed into a penalty box designed to hold seven max. The crowd cheers and sings fight songs.
“It’s nice to play in a full stadium,” Jovi says happily.
“Shut the fuck up.” I clutch my ribs and skate back to the tunnel to ecstatic cheers from the crowd when the timer runs out and the refs let us out of the penalty box.
Ellie is in the tunnel talking to the sports media scrum when we leave the ice bleeding and disgraced. She speaks rapidly over the roar of the crowd, her hands flapping.
My nose is still dripping blood, which runs over my upper lip to spatter on my uniform. I’m pretty sure I’m going to need stitches on my eye, and, oh yeah—we lost. Big fucking time.
And Ellie’s what? Talking about putting pucks in net next game?
“Next game?” I scream at her. The cameras swing onto me. I wipe at my bloody face with my jersey. “I am not playing another game with you as the fucking coach. You suck. You’re a terrible coach.”
“Really? Because your last one is in jail,” she screeches back at me.
“We never lost this badly with him.”
“Maybe it’s your fault. You just got called up from the minors, and you’re still playing like it.”
“Don’t put this on me, Coach,” I spit. “You made terrible calls. I didn’t have the same line the entire night.”
“I have a method.” She clamps her mouth shut. “I’m not arguing with you. Go to the locker room. We can talk about this later.”
That sets me off. The fury pulses in tandem with my throbbing eye.
I grab her. “You don’t get to dismiss me like I’m one of your preschool children. And yeah, I did look you up, and you’re not qualified to be here.”
“Really? You want to have this fight here?” she snaps. “That’s fine. Let’s fucking go.” She pulls out her clipboard.
“You missed not one, not two, but three easy shots on goal. I kept changing the lines around because I was trying to find the best player who would keep up with you because I erroneously thought that was the reason you kept sitting on the puck—because you needed a better winger. I admit I was wrong. It wasn’t them.
It was you. You’re the problem. Word to the wise: if you’re gonna be a puck hog, at least get the puck in the fucking net. My grandmother could have done better.”
“Your grandmother does cocaine, so that’s not surprising. Stuff me full of amphetamines, and I’ll be all over this ice.” I spit blood.
“Second, you ignored all of my plays.”
“I’m not making the butterfly play,” I say stubbornly as her lip curls.
“The Direwolves overly rely on that diamond formation. You need to push through then back pass to Ziggy, Jovi, or literally any of the other people I put on your right wing and cut away. You could have scored. You had several chances that if you had just listened to me—”
“I’m not listening to a crazy person.”
“Third,” Ellie screeches over me, “you disobeyed a direct command. I ordered you to get off the ice. Even if you hadn’t started that fight, you were too spent to perform an effective play anyway and would have cost us another goal.”
I don’t even tell her that the fight was an accident. “I’m not your dog on a leash.”
“No shit. You can’t even come when you’re told. Now go to the locker room.”
“Uh-oh, sounds like a lovers’ spat,” some doughy hockey commentator who barely bag skated when he was in rec league chortles. And now he’s making me feel like I have to defend her.
Fuck it. I’m itching for a fight.
“The fuck did you say?” I turn on the man.
He doesn’t have the God-given sense to shut up. Chucklehead says, “There are rumors that she’s sleeping with players.” He yelps when I buck at him.
“Sleeping with players.” My fists clench in my heavy gloves.
I look down at Ellie. Her face is pinched.
“Funny. I didn’t get my dick sucked today.”
“Yeah, because you lost the game,” she snaps.
“So if I win?” I let the words hang there.
“Well, that honor should go to the captain, and I don’t know if you’re captain material.” She looks me up and down, chin set stubbornly.
I’m going to punch someone. Probably one of the media idiots with their cameras in my face.
“No way would anyone want to be with her,” I tell them. “She’s argumentative. Stubborn.”
“I’m stubborn? Mr. Can’t Follow Simple Directions.”
“You have your whole fucking family working here, princess.”
“You liked my mom’s cake. You had two pieces. Yes, I saw that.”
“You feed your players cake?” one of the reporters asks.
“Why, you want some, fucking bag of milk?” I grab the reporter’s shirt collar, lift him up in the air.
“Sullivan, now that you’ve suffered one of the worst losses in the history of the NHL,” a reporter asks as the crowd around us, “do you think hiring a female NHL coach was a terrible idea?”
“Leading question much?” I spit. I toss the other reporter away.
“I think you’re putting words in his mouth.” Suddenly, Ryder O’Connell’s there like a poster boy for the NHL.
No helmet hair. The golden boy is perfect.
While my face looks like I lost a fight with a garbage truck, Ryder only has a bloody scrape under one eye, looking like he’s out of Central Casting for a movie or something.
“I think I can speak for the Direwolves when I say this is the most exciting game we’ve played all season.
” The crowd is still roaring around us as Ryder speaks calmly.
“Usually, after a Rhode Islanders game, the anemic crowds can’t wait to go home.
Now they’re all here, still excitedly soaking in the atmosphere.
We haven’t had an NHL bench clearing,” Ryder says, brilliant blue eyes sparkling like glaciers in the stadium lights, “in what, a decade? And Ellie Clarke makes one happen. Watch—you’ll see viewer numbers skyrocket for the next few games.
This is a great opportunity to bring new fans into the sport. ”
He gives a brilliant smile.
“Everyone’s fired up about hockey, and we have you to thank, Coach. Can’t wait until our next match. See you in Manhattan.” He shakes Ellie’s hand. She seems a little dazed by the handsome captain.
I prod my teeth. They’re all there.
My pride’s not.
That’s the thing about Ryder O’Connell. He smiles as he flays you alive then says sorry for the beatdown.
I stalk down the hall, slam my way into the locker room. Ellie’s mom bustles around with ice and a first aid kit, trying to stem the bleeding. Granny Murray shoves a tampon up my nose.
Jovi bats the little blue string. “It’s like a mouse.”
I scream as Granny Murray uses the heel of her hand to push my busted nose back in place. “I bet he’s glad I brought alcohol now.” She waves the half-empty bottle of tequila at me.
Zayne is congratulating the rookies. “Your first NHL fight!”
I gulp tequila, letting it numb the pain as Ellie’s mom tapes an ice pack in a paper towel to my head.
I breathe through my mouth as Ellie knocks on the locker room door.
“Are you decent?”
“Unfortunately not,” Granny Murray calls.